Tabulated
by ohscrewthename
Summary: His mouth turns up slightly at the corners. "Just lend me your body." NAMINE&AXEL.
1. Asshole

Blargh, fanfiction deleted this story due to my summary containing profanity. So I have changed the summary and have finally re-uploaded it. I'm not dead, I promise!

* * *

**Tabulated**

Monday, March 17, 2012.

_Memo_: _Meet Roxas for lunch Wed._

_Memo_: _Dorm Room number: 539_

To Do List (In order of importance.)

1. Go over Calculus equations, Thursday.  
2. Learn acrylics for canvas, Monday.  
3. Definitions test in English, Sunday.  
4. Work on canvas in dorm, store in locker.  
5. Finish History paper, end of month.

* * *

Sweat settles into the creases of my hand. I shift the shading stick between my fingers to assuage the ache.

Even if my hand falls off, I have to finish this.

"Namine, how is your progress going today, dear?" A bit of purple from Professor Kaburagi's knit blouse skirts the right side of my canvas.

Blonde hair falls in my face. "I'm a little bit behind, but I should catch up if I finish the line work."

"Namine," Angling my canvas toward her, Prof. Kaburagi sighs loudly, "you only have until next Monday to complete this assignment. You're more than a little behind. It's absurd."

The class quiets to a murmur. Embarrassing.

"I'm sorry…" I feel my face flush, "I'll finish up with the line work today."

"Quicken your pace, dear." She looks down at me, smiling wide. "I'd hate to fail you."

I try to ignore the throbbing in my fingers.

"I will, sorry."

The heaviness of her hand finally lifts from my shoulder as she turns away.

Thankfully, all the eyes follow suit.

"Axel, have you even started on your project, yet? Why don't you follow instructions?!"

Startled by the sudden volume, I look up.

Psh, Axel.

The professors here are required to call him that. But nobody else does. They call him "The Asshole".

He lives up to it.

Just last week I heard he hung a random guy from the top of the flagpole by his underwear. It took me the whole two-and-a-half hours of Math to figure out why there was screaming outside the window.

"And why don't you …" The Asshole's voice strains as he stretches back his arms, "…go back to nagging your star pupils?"

His eyes somehow meet mine.

My spine tingles. I quickly turn away.

"Extra class!" The professor sputters, "I demand that you stay after class every day until the due date of this project if you want me to pass you! Honestly, you need to blahblahblah-"

My hearing grows muffled. Thoughts swirling.

Was that poor timing or did he mean to look at me?

Barely able to contain myself, I steal another glance.

"-blahblahblah, is that clear, Axel?"

He's already turned from my direction. "As clear as mud."

Seemingly satisfied with his barely-there compliance, the high pitch of Professor Kaburagi's exuberant voice returns. She goes back to checking on the other students.

_"…Star pupils."_

A sick feeling envelopes my stomach.

I must be paranoid.

* * *

Tuesday, March 18, 2012.

_Memo: Don't forget canvas from locker!_

Memo: Lunch with Roxas, Wed.

**To Do List**(In order of importance.)

1. Go over Calculus equations, Thursday.  
2. Complete art project, Monday.  
3. English definitions test, Sunday.  
4. Work on canvas and acrylics in dorm, store in locker.  
5. Science test, next Tuesday.  
6. Finish History paper, end of the month.

* * *

**Click.**

I grip the azure strap of my shoulder bag, watching intensely from around the corner as the orange glow slowly fades in and out.

In and out. Out and in.

Like a disturbing rhythm.

**Click.**

Like a lighter.

That's all I can see through the crook of his elbow- no cigarette.

But what's the point of that?

**Click.**

A wannabe bad boy? A paraphiliac?

I suppose it doesn't matter.

Either way, it looks like he'd have no qualms with setting the whole building on fire.  
**  
Click.**

Slowly, with fear rising up in my chest, I approach the Asshole's turned back.

I don't want to get burned.

"Um..." I tremble.

The clicking ceases.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, I force some words out.

"W-would you please…"

His red, spiky hair tilts slightly. I see a green iris cut towards me in annoyance.

A lump rises in my throat.

"Y-you're…in front of my..."

The Asshole glances at my locker, partially covered by his tall, languid body. But he doesn't answer. Just starts flicking his lighter again.

**Click.**

Clutching my shoulder strap just a little bit tighter, I watch the flames' constant re-birth from the silver metal. A beautiful, unspoken threat…

He's showing it to me on purpose.

**Click.**

"You want me to move." His voice comes out deep, breathy.

Not a question.  
**  
Click.  
**  
I don't look up.

"W-well, I need to get something."

Suddenly facing me, he slams his hand against my locker. The abrupt clang of hand meeting metal makes me flinch.

"Something like what?" He challenges.

Mocks.

"An art p-project?"

"And?"

What's he trying to get at?

"And…I need to turn it in or it'll be late and I'll get..."

I trail off, feeling dumb.

He chuckles. "There's no point."

What an ass. There's a point for people who want to pass.

"What's with that look, Goldilocks?" He arches an eyebrow, looking down at me.

"Wha…?" I start, then freeze.

I've been staring at him. No, not staring-

Glaring.

"Go ahead." He taps the lighter leisurely against the metal of my locker. "I'm used to looks like that."

The color drains from my face. Glaring is what got the last victim hanging from a flag pole.

**Click.**

I feel my feet moving backward. The Asshole follows my movement, eyes narrowing with what looks to be amusement.

He knows I want to run. He can tell.

I increase my speed, waiting for him to stop me.

But he doesn't. Just leans there, clicking away.

Sweat drips down my temple. I feel myself stumbling around the corner.

**Click.**

Go faster.

Hair starts to whip my cheeks, my body practically going airborne down the hallway.

I don't stop, though. Just keep running.

And it isn't until the clicking fades that I finally force myself to a halt.

* * *

"There's no point…" I echo, jotting it down on the page. I stare down at the words, like I'm trying to intimidate them into leaving my brain.

**Click.**

Gasping, I whirl around, my desk chair almost spinning off its wheels.

Just my bed, a full laundry basket, and crumpled papers surrounding my desk. And my nightstand which has…

…a ticking clock.

I slap myself in the head.

What am I, nuts?

Letting out a sigh of frustration, I push away from my desk and pull up the blinds, letting the morning sunshine peek through the rectangular slits.

I really need to get a grip. Why would he be in my dorm room?

After brushing my teeth and pulling on my favorite pale yellow dress, I comb through my relatively straight hair with my fingers as I flip through my diary to the Planner section.

Wednesday, March 19, 2012.

_Memo: No Classes Being Held._

Memo 2: Meet Roxas for lunch.

**To Do List**(In order of importance.)

1. Re-do art canvas.  
2. Learn techniques for painting with acrylic.  
3. Complete art project, Monday.  
4. Dinner w/ Yuffie and Selphie, Friday.  
5. Go over Calculus equations, Thursday.  
6. English definitions test, Sunday.

Art room it is, then.

Grabbing my bag and stepping into some flip flops, I lock the door and wave to a nice girl named Xion as I pass through the lobby.

* * *

Closing my eyes, I enjoy the soothing silence of the empty room.

No teacher to harass me.

_Inhale._

I scoop my brush into a light shade of red and fill in a rose.

No clicking, either.

_Exhale._

The color begins to streak halfway through. I re-dip the brush.

"What's this, hm?" A masculine voice muses.

My heart skips a beat, but I keep my brush poised above the paper.

Why didn't I hear the door open?

Breathy laughter. "Did I surprise you?"

I don't answer. Don't even have to turn around to figure out who the owner of the voice is.

"What brings you here after classes?"

To get away from people like you.

"Just working on the project?"

Just ignore him, Namine.

Slowly, I mix some red with white on my palette.

"Damn, you sure are sociable."

A frustrated sigh escapes my lips. I dip into a green shade.

Feet shuffle. "Is your voice box broken?"

Let him think me deaf.

"What have we here?"

A breeze suddenly snakes around my face. Shivering, my eye move to the side.

The Asshole is leaning over my shoulder, one hand on the table and the other on the back of my chair.

"You drew this?"

My face warms up. Without really thinking, I nod.

"It's not too bad."

Red mixes into yellow.

"What's your name?"

My mouth opens. But I catch myself.

"I'm Axel." He offers.

I glance sheepishly at him.

The corner of his mouth raises slyly. "Oh, so you _can _see me."

Hinges squeak. I look up just in time to see Professor Kaburagi entering the classroom. She sets her binder on the desk, then takes notice of us.

"Axel, where is your project?"

He removes his hand from the back of my chair. "Haven't started it."

Scooping my brushes into my brush bag, I see this as a good opportunity to leave. I rise hurriedly from my seat and slide my painting onto the cooling rack.

The Professor sighs, agitated. "Then what have you been doing this whole time?"

Shifting his head to the side, Axel gestures to me humorously.

The teacher lets out a disgusted gasp. Then I get his statement.

Almost knocking the rack over, I yank the door handle open and flee.

* * *

"A weird guy?"

"Yeah." I look down at my untouched vanilla milkshake. "He's been bothering me for the past couple of days."

Roxas clinks his spoon against the counter. A nervous habit since we were kids.

"Has he been bullying you?"

"No."

"Do I know him?"

"Maybe."

"Has he said anything out of line?"

"Well, no…" I put my chin in my hand. "He's just been talking to me."

Roxas takes a sip of his slushy. "That doesn't sound too bad."

"It is."

Another sip. "How do you figure?"

I trail my finger down the milkshake glass, dragging through the condensation. "I feel like he's always implying something when he talks to me."

"Sexually?" Roxas chuckles and moves his empty smoothie cup to the side. I throw a straw wrapper at him.

"He's never actually said anything offensive."

"Then why is he bothering you?"

"I think he's out to get me."

"You think?" Roxas laughs, playing with the straw wrapper, "What you mean to say is, you _think_."

I give him a confused look.

"If he didn't like you, he wouldn't talk to you. You might be over-complicating the uncomplicated, Nami."

"You think so?"

"Yup." He smiles, "Just chalk it up to him being strange and move on."

Then why did he give me that dirty look?

"Thanks, Roxas."

"No prob. Hey, are you gonna finish that?" He points to my milkshake.

I never really started it. For some reason, I can't eat.

"It's all yours."

* * *

Thursday, March 19, 2012.

_Memo: Bring art brushes._

**To Do List**(In order of importance.)

1. Re-do art canvas.  
2. Go after Calc test to avoid Asshole.  
3. Learn techniques for painting with acrylic.  
4. Complete art project, Monday.  
5. English test, Sunday.  
6. Calc quiz, Saturday.

* * *

I bolt around the corner after Calculus class, almost flinging myself into the art room. I slump my shoulder bag onto the nearest table and dump out my brushes, their clatter bouncing off the walls.

No class today. Four days left on the project, three days to complete.

I should be able to finish.

Turning on the tap, I fill up my paint cup. For a moment, all I can hear is the dribbling of water into plastic. Then I hear someone cough.

Jerking to the side, I realize the Asshole has been perched in the corner the whole time. A canvas is in front of him, a side of paints and a cup of water to the left of it.

Weird.

"What?" He looks up sharply.

I look away. Then glance back.

He's still looking.

"What's with that, Blondie?"

I gnaw on my lower lip for a moment before tilting my head to indicate confusion.

"Your comment."

Comment?

"I-I don't know what you mean." I respond, too stupefied to give him the silent treatment.

"You said "weird"." The corner of his mouth rises, "What's weird, your face?"

Oh. I said that out loud.

"That is, well, uh…"

No way I can say it. I don't want to cause myself any more trouble.

"Make like tobacco and spit it out." The Asshole leans back.

I decide to go for it.

"It's weird that …that you're actually working."

"Well," He cracks the side of his neck, "I find it weird that you're filling up a cup that's overflowing."

I feel water gushing down my hand. Quickly, I shut off the tap and dump half of it out.

He laughs.

Face flushed, I slide the cup onto my table and head over to the cooling rack for my painting.

Huh…

I reach my hand all the way in.

…that's funny.

Did I move my painting to another rack?

I go to the other side.

No such luck. But, then again, the Professor has an annoying tendency to relocate our projects.

Searching behind the Asshole's table, I decide to check the cabinets near the back. As I squeeze behind him, my eyes catch the startlingly bright shades of red and blue in his grasp.

My canvas.

Turning halfway, Asshole notices my staring. "Not too shabby..."

Why does he…?

"W-why do you have my canvas?"

He lugs himself up onto the table, slowly pushing the painting to the side. "…But is this you?"

My eyes follow the painting as it slides across the wood.

"Me?"

I don't know whether he's being serious, stupid, or both.

I reach for my canvas. He slides it further along the table, giving me an expectant look.

Which means I have to answer.

"O-of course it isn't." I move closer. "It's a still-life of flowers in a vase."

"Don't be a smart ass, now." He taps lightly on the painting. "You think I'm blind?"

I elect not to answer. I'm obviously not going to get my painting back.

Relenting, I head back to my side of the room and pile my water colors back into my bag.

"By 'you' ," He says suddenly, " I mean your style."

My head shoots up. "Style?"

"Yeah, you know," He lifts my painting from the table, "Where you inserted your personal touches."

I blink, not understanding. "I was going off of another artist's painting."

"No shit, Blondie," The Asshole sighs, using his chair as a foot rest, "And yet it's nothing like the original."

"Well," I fumble, "I tried to make it look like his work but -"

"Looks like crap."

My face turns red. I feel my dignity slipping.

Who is he to tell me what art is?

After yanking my shoulder bag onto my arm, I abruptly shove my chair back.

"At least I can draw!"

He blinks in surprise.

Feeling the blood rush to my face, I try to do damage control. "I-I meant to say that, uh-"

"BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

I feel myself sink to the floor a little.

Is he…laughing at me?

"You're a riot, Blondie!" He kicks at a chair, knocking it over. Turning pink, I eye my canvas next to him.

The sooner I grab it, the sooner I can leave.

Slowly, I edge myself towards his side of the room.

"But seriously, though." The Asshole wipes his eyes, "I didn't say you couldn't draw."

Practically chewing my lip off, I position myself on the opposite side of the table, hoping he doesn't notice how close I'm getting.

"W-what are you saying, then?"

He makes a sound in the back of his throat, almost like a pur. "Jeez, do you want somethin' from me, or what?"

I freeze. He's noticed my fingers creeping across the table.

"Um," I blush, looking away, "My painting, please."

"Oh." He hauls himself up and swings around, his long legs bumping mine as he faces me. Moving almost deliberately slow, he shoves the canvas forward just enough so that it bumps the tips of my fingers. Gulping, I snatch the painting to my chest.

"Th-thanks."

He jumps off the table, so quickly that I have to step back to avoid brushing fronts with him. Seeing my discomfort, the Asshole bows slightly and moves to the side, allowing me an easy exit.

Accepting the path quickly, I thrust my painting into the wire rack as I make my way almost frantically to the door. No sense working on a painting in a place with no sanity.

"Can I ask…" I pause as I grip the door handle, "…why you think my painting is so bad?"

The Asshole's hand outstretches mine, his arm easily reaching over my head as he pushes the door open. Turning on his heel, he speaks just loud enough for me to hear:

"You don't put any soul into it."

* * *

Friday, March 21, 2012.

_Memo: Can't remember._

**To Do List**(In order of importance.)

1. Find flaws in canvas.  
2. Re-do art canvas.  
3. Stay after class.  
4. Complete art project, Monday.  
5. Learn techniques for painting with acrylic.  
6. Work on canvas later tonight.  
7. Chapter 10, History class.

* * *

"This is due Monday, everyone." Professor Kaburagi informs the next day, "I hope you've all accurately portrayed your assigned paintings."

My eyes fall to my own creation.

The cerulean of the background brings out the crimson of the petals, the leaves are shaded in a myriad of olives and limes, the stems are umber in color and weave throughout each other. I'd say it's an accurate portrayal to the original.

But...

_" You don't put any soul into it."_

...There's something I'm not noticing.

I examine every crevice of the canvas. The line work is smooth. The bouquet is detailed. The cracks in the vase are sharp. The background is unblemished. The edges along the frame are faded out, and everything is blended.

I eye his vacant desk savagely. There is absolutely nothing wrong with it.

Which means everything is wrong.

* * *

"You're not coming with us for dinner?"

"I don't think so."

I swore I wrote this down. So why'd I forget?

"But Namine…" Selphie pouts, tugging at my arm, "It's fried chicken Friday!"

"I prefer grilled, anyway."

Yuffie rolls her amber eyes, not buying the excuse. "You're staying after class again, aren't you!"

I look away, confirming the statement.

"I can't believe you! We've been planning this all week!"

My foot kicks at an imaginary rock. "I didn't think this project would be so hard."

"But a couple days ago you said that you had this in the bag."

"Yeah," Yuffie agrees, "I thought you'd be long finished by now."

I sigh. "Me too."

They both raise their eyebrows in unison.

"I'm sorry," I try to patch my slip up, "I promise I'll go next Friday."

"You better get an A on this project." Yuffie smiles, putting her arm around my shoulders.

Selphie laughs. "When has she _not _gotten an A in art?"

"Well," I move out from underneath her arm, "I'd better get going, my art project isn't going to finish itself."

"Namine, you've been acting weird."

"Oh, I think it's just her personality!" Yuffie laughs. Selphie joins in.

My mouth opens to laugh, but a sigh replaces it.

* * *

I look up from my work to see the Asshole strut in casually, grabbing a blank canvas from the counter.

He seems to grab a new one every day. Weird.

But then again, according to Selphie and Yuffie, I'm weird, too.

"Hi." I tentatively greet.

A weirdo greeting a weirdo.

For a moment the Asshole's step falters, but he quickly reverts back to his cocky strut. Tracing his fingers across my table, he grabs the chair right across from mine and thumps into the seat.

"Do you mind if I borrow a pencil?"

I stop working, my eyes flitting from his face, to his fresh canvas, then back to his face.

Does he ever come prepared?

"Or not, I guess."

"Oh!" I bury my face into my bag and fumble for my pencil case. After what feels like an hour, I finally produce a perfectly sharpened number two pencil, holding its length as far outward from my body as possible.

Whether he notices my discomfort or not, he takes the pencil without commenting. "Thanks, Goldilocks."

Goldilocks?

"Namine."

The Asshole looks up, evidently surprised by my volunteered words.

"M-my name," I stutter in my own shock, "is Namine."

"Namine…"

He smiles then. Not a smirk, not a sneer, but a genuine smile. The corners of his mouth turn up and his full lips part softly.

My face suddenly feels hot. I let my bangs fall into my eyes.

"So when is this project due?" He asks, thankfully not noticing.

"Um, on Monday."

"Think you'll finish by then?"

I have no idea.

"Yes."

He starts sketching. "You're in a good mood today, Namine."

"How so?" My stomach flutters at the sound of my name. Or maybe that's only because I feel his knees pressing against mine from underneath the table.

Maybe both.

"You're actually holding a conversation longer than thirty seconds with me."

"Oh, I-I didn't notice."

Why am I being so nice?

He said my art was crap. He wouldn't let me get to my locker. He glared at me. The clicking of his lighter drives me halfway to madness.

I should hate him right now.

With my anger returning, I shift my knees back away from his. Less bothered by our lack of conversation, the silence becomes more comfortable, and I work diligently. After an hour or so, sunset starts to pour in through the large window. Feeling the full ache of my fingers, I set down my paintbrush and tilt the finished products towards the fading sun.

All wrong.

Dejectedly, I let the canvas drop onto the table. The Asshole, obviously not bothered by the noise, continues sketching, the brushing noise of the pencil heightened by the muteness of the room. Curving my neck, I try to casually survey his work from over his arm.

Soft, almost feathery graphite lines form the shape of majestic wings, of folds in long robes, of loving expressions, and of graceful limbs.

A seraph embracing a small, human baby.

Some parts, like the feet and legs, are still in the stages of rough sketching- but the tenderness etched in their gray eyes, the soft smiles playing about their shapely mouths, the daintiness of their clasped hands…all of it. Flawless.

"Don't drool, now."

Jolted by his amused voice, I realize I'm leaning halfway across the table, completely overshadowing his drawing.

I quickly lower myself back into my seat.

Putting his chin in his hand the Asshole grins, his eyes warm. "If you weren't always so quiet, your speechless behavior might flatter me."

"B-but," I sputter, searching for words, "Y-you can't…I thought you couldn't-"

"Couldn't draw or paint?" He interrupts, "Couldn't do anything artistic?"

I look away. "Well, it doesn't help that you always act like an assho-" I cut myself off and start again, "that you always treat people like-"

My eyes unwillingly meet his.

"Like what?" His smile widens, but the warmth disappears. "An asshole?"

My whole body fills with pins. I don't answer.

I don't need to.

"Don't worry about it," He slides my pencil back to me and stands sharply, "it's common knowledge."

"I-it's only because of the way you talk…" I say softly, oddly enough, trying to make him feel better.

He lifts up his drawing. "You mean it's the way I _don't _talk."

"I don't understand."

Not answering me, he tosses his sketch across the room like a frisbee. It sails for a few seconds, then lands next to the huge garbage can near the front door. My mouth opens to protest, the words glued to the back of my throat.

How could he throw something so beautiful?

"People are so predictable. They just fucking love it when you sweet talk their faces off. And then what happens?"

Despite the rhetorical phrasing, the Asshole shoots me a deprecatory glare. Like he's daring me to answer the question.

He probably expects me to turn my face away, which I do accordingly.

Letting out a kind of snicker, he goes on, "People always shit-talk when others turn away. I find it so fucking ironic that when someone gets caught in the middle of doing just that, the victim of the shit talking tells the talkers to 'say it to their face'. Yet, when you actually talk shit to their face, they don't appreciate the fact that you didn't say it behind their back, but instead…" He pauses and looks directly at me, his smile widening.

"…they call you an 'Asshole', and you're isolated even more for being honest."

Catching the irony, my eyes widen. That's exactly what I've been doing to him.

And he's known all along.

So then why did he…?

I jump when I see him heading for the door. He can't leave.

"W-wait!" I hear myself call.

His shoulders tense.

"W-why did you throw your drawing away? With art like that, people wouldn't judge you, and maybe the teacher would stop thinking you're lazy. The rumors would go away!"

He leans back on his heel. "Art isn't some shitty popularity contest."

"But if people knew how talented you were, they wouldn't treat you so terribly!"

"You know," He turns away in disgust, "you look at painting the same way you look at people."

"What is that supposed to mean?" My voice trembles.

Waving his hand dismissively at me, he leaves the door ajar.

"If you can't figure it out, you don't deserve to know."

* * *

Saturday, March 22, 2012.

_Memo: Don't think about him._

**To Do List**(In order of importance.)

1. Figure it out!

* * *

**Click.**

My eyes open before I want them to.

Yawning, I feel around for my nightstand clock. Neon orange numbers glow dully on the circular face. I squint a bit.

7:30

Sliding the clock gently back onto the table, I sluggishly roll out of bed and into my slippers. Making sure I don't get locked out, I leave the door cracked as I head into the dorm kitchen.

Breakfast…breakfast…what do I want for breakfast?

"Wow Namine, were you up all night?"

Looking to my left, I see Xion sitting in a chair near the window, sipping on what looks to be tea.

Was I?

"I don't know." I mumble sleepily, grabbing a slice of pumpernickel from the breadbox.

"Your light was on for quite a long time." She sips her tea again, "Were you studying?"

As I press my bread into the toaster, memories slowly start returning.

That fleck of dried red paint on my index finger. Countless hours of graphite sketching. Dropping charcoal on my skirt. Running out of putty erasers.

"Yeah…studying."

Buttering my toast, I glance over at Xion to see if she buys it. She brushes her short black bangs from her eyes, looking indifferent.

"I assumed you were studying for that Calculus quiz we had today. When you didn't show up I figured you-"

"Calculus!?" I almost choke on my toast, "That's not a morning class now, is it?!"

Now it's Xion's turn to look shocked.

"Morning? It's an afternoon class!"

"But it's not even noon yet!" I attempt to catch the butter dripping down my chin.

Xion stands up and flips out her cell phone, handing it to me.

7:43

_P.M_.

Dropping my toast, I let out the worst profanity that I can think of before bumping my head into the wall and racing back to my room for clothing.

I can only hope my professors are still in the building this late.

* * *

"You've seemed a bit…off this past week, Namine. Is there anything you wish to talk about?"  
_  
"You know, you look at painting the same way you look at people."_

Chewing my lip and tugging at my white tank top, I shake my head, accepting the makeup work from my professor with silent apology. The professor looks at me for a moment, then nods, dismissing me.

As I walk down the empty hallway, I grip the latest section of my makeup work under my arm. My steps remain brisk until I approach the art room.

Surely I don't need to go in there for makeup work.

The only thing we've been working on is this project. And I brought all of the art supplies I'll need for painting back to my room, anyway.

Convinced, I tear myself away and exit the building.

Besides-

_"…You don't deserve to know."_

I bet he's in there.

My cheeks smart from the memory as I unlock my door, but I shake my head clear. Plopping the small pile of makeup work on my bed, I sit down at my desk and set to work finishing my new canvas.

May as well stay up all night again, since I slept the day away.

A yawn tugs at my lips. For a little while, I feather out the fresh paint along my new flowers. It goes fairly well until I reach for my blending sponge.

"Crap."

Shoving back my chair, I lug my bag onto my shoulder and slam the door behind me.

I left my sponges in the art room.

* * *

A/N: That was part 1 out of 2. I re-did a few little errors in the story. I'm never happy with my work and I always find something to improve on. :P Please review, even if you already did last time this story was up! I'd love to read your opinions.


	2. Blondie

I know, it's long overdue. Please enjoy!

**CHAPTER 2  
**

* * *

I wonder if he's in there.

Click.

I guess so.

My fingers slowly, cautiously, pull down the metal handle. Despite the fact that I slowly ease my way in, however, my efforts go down the toilet.

Click.

Because there he is, sitting there and looking at me.

At an empty table, in an empty classroom, with an empty canvas. Two days before the due date of the assignment.

And he couldn't look more relaxed.

"Sup, Goldilocks."

I want to ask him why he keeps calling me that. Even after I've told him my real name. Why he keeps making things and starting from scratch. Why he always chooses the worst times to come after class.

Why he keeps making me question my sanity.

Click.

Or why the heck he doesn't just smoke a freakin' cigarette.

I don't say anything, just move past him. I make sure I leave the door ajar.

In case I need to make a fast exit.

Setting my bag down next to the sink, I scan the counter for my sponge. Like finding it is the more important thing in the world.

The Asshole snickers audibly. My avoidance of him is apparently amusing.

"Are you still working on that project?"

No sponges by the sink. I know I left it here to rinse.

"Or…" He taps his lighter on the table, "...are you letting that project work you?"

I open a cabinet door. No sponges in there.

"What are you looking for?"

I pull a box down from the supply shelf.

"I don't get you." His deep voice reverberates. "One day you talk, another you don't."

Don't speak.

My lip aches as I bite down.

"A bit bi-polar, are we?"

Screw it, I'll just have to borrow a sponge.

Walking over to the professor's desk, I plop into the chair and and slide a drawer open.

"Or," I hear the squeak of his chair move, "maybe you're just ignoring me."

A frustrated huff slips past my lips.

Took him long enough to figure out.

"Alrighty then."

I pull open the top drawer.

"I guess I'll just have to try a different approach."

A black shoe suddenly crashes onto the desktop. I let go of the drawer in surprise, and the Asshole takes the spacious opportunity of sliding himself onto the desk. Before I can slide myself back, he spreads his legs out and hooks them behind the arms of the chair, drawing me back to the desk.

Blushing furiously, I turn my head away from his hips, which are basically almost in my face.

"Now that I have your attention…" The Asshole rests his elbows on his knees and ducks his head down, "…how about treating me like an equal and giving me a few words?"

My mouth parts a little, my cheeks singeing. Looking between his thighs is nearly unavoidable.

"Come on now, Blondie, say what you're feeling."

Humiliation. Helplessness. Anger.

I taste blood on my lip, but I don't move my teeth.

"Do I make you uncomfortable?"

He leans in, using his ankles to drag my chair closer to the desk. Closer to him.

"Do I?"

Even closer.

A growl rips from my throat, forming the word.

"YEEEEEEES!"

Surprised at my loud outburst, I bite back down on my throbbing lip and look away.

"And what do I do," His legs brush my elbows as he curls his ankles around the back of my chair, pulling me up so close that I can feel his body heat, "that makes you so angry?"

My pulse throbs, my whole body growing warm. I clench my fists and lean back as far as I'm able.

I hate that…

"I-I hate how you insult my art- how you're so good at it yourself but make no effort to excel. I hate that whatever you say, it gets stuck in my head and I can't figure it out. I hate how you always bother me but nobody else. I hate that you've made my grades slip with your nonsense, and that you keep getting in my way whenever I try to paint in peace and quiet."

I take a breath, adrenaline rushing through me as I gain backbone. "I can't stand the fact that you call me stupid nicknames that only relate to my hair color and don't represent me as a person. It's Namine. NAH-MEE-NAY, got that? But most of all, I hate that clicking! If you have to smoke, why don't you do it somewhere else?! And while we're on the subject of you leaving, why can't you leave me alone, ASSHOLE?!"

Intoxicated with my sudden eruption, I meet his gaze square on, waiting, no, _challenging_ him.

"Well, damn," The Asshole drops his feet from my chair, freeing me, "now don't you feel better?"

I feel a vein pop in my neck.

'Better?' My mouth forms the word, but no actual sound comes out.

"I can't believe a little thing like you had so much raw emotion bottled up inside over one person." He crosses his legs beneath him, smiling wide. "I'm touched."

He sees this all as a joke.

Shakily standing up, I pull the chair in front of me like some sort of shield. "Y-you're the strangest person I've ever met."

"No shit?" The Asshole asks jocosely. "You haven't met a lot of people."

"I guess I haven't."

"So then why do you cluster what you don't know into categories, then?"

He catches the puzzlement in my expression and snorts.

"What's my name, Namine?"

"Assho- " I catch myself.

"Exactly my point."

"I don't see what you're getting at."

"No surprise, there." He puts his foot on the arm of my shield, leaning toward me. "Do you have your bag with you?"

I blink.

"M-my bag?"

His green eyes spark a little bit. Something mischievous.

I look up at him uncertainly, drawing back. "You're not going to put it on a flag pole or something, are you?"

"Don't get your bra stuffing in a bunch." He slips off the desk. "I just want to see something."

Dubiously, I point to the sink. Sauntering past the tables, he plucks my bag up and hunches over it for a minute or two. Then I hear the sudden ruffling of pages.

But the only book I have in there is…

My planner.

Leaping over the tables after him in a panic, I stretch out my hands, sputtering like a mad woman.

"Y-you can't, that's private!"

He turns around, and I see the book already open in his hands. I make a grab for it, but he, well over six feet, easily lifts it away.

"That's personal! You can't just-"

Abruptly, he shoves the book in my face, making me wince. After a moment of him dangling it, I catch on to the fact that I'm supposed to read it. I follow his long finger to the indicated section:

_Asshole [as-hohl]_

_1. Anus_

_A. n. The opening at the end of the large bowel; the anus (usually objectionable)._  
_B. n. A worthless or annoying person. (Also a person of address. Rude and derogatory)._

_2. Slang_

_A. A stupid, mean, or contemptible person._

_B. The worst part of a place or thing._

So it's not my planner. It's a dictionary.

I forgot I had that in there.

He closes it. "So this is my label, eh?"

"I'm not labeling you." I mutter, reaching my hand out for the book.

"No?" He lifts it higher, "Then what would you call it, Blondie?"

Feeling the blood rush to my ears, I bounce up and snatch the volume from him, quickly thumbing through the tabulated sections. After about thirty seconds of searching, I flip the dictionary around and thrust it at him, standing on my toes so the words hit his eye level:

_Blondie [blon- dee]_

_Noun_

_1. Informal. a blond person: All the children were blondies._  
_2. a butterscotch or toffee brownie; a no-chocolate brownie_  
_3. a dessert confection resembling a brownie but made with butterscotch flavoring in place of chocolate._

The Asshole's eyes move back and forth across the page. When I see that he's finished, I lower the book and state calmly, "I call it an evenly exchanged nickname."

He titters and pushes the book away. "I'm sure you would."

"You don't agree?"

"Well fuck," He throws his hands in the air, annoyed, "would you rather be known as a brownie or a butt hole?"

Good point.

"Neither definition defines me." I snap the dictionary shut.

His eyes suddenly meet mine, almost burning with intensity. "And what defines you, then?"

I shake my head, breaking eye contact.

My art? My dreams?

"I don't know."

"Well, let's start with this." He leans against the counter, "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't call you Blondie."

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder why I'm not excusing myself from the room. Why I can't just go and ask one of my many classmates for a spare sponge like I should have done in the first place.

"It's not my name, that's why."

I can see no reasoning behind this conversation…which, oddly, is reason enough for me to stay and find one.

"And you're not a brownie, are you."

I flush, feeling stupid. "No."

"So," He cracks his knuckles, "putting to use all of that knowledge, what would you call me?"

I swallow.

For as long as I can remember, I've been judged…yet here I am, judging this person like I know him. Like he can be defined in a dictionary. Like whatever a person appears to be is how they are as a whole…and not for what they actually are.

Maybe I'm the asshole.

"Y-your name," I falter, "is Axel."

"You're damn right." Axel propels off the counter and grins cheekily. "Got it memorized?"

Axel...

"Yeah."

"So," He leans over and grabs his duffle bag, throwing it over his shoulder, "why do you come in here?"

"Oh, uh, for sponges."

"You need sponges every day?"

"No, just this time! Otherwise I wouldn't be in here..."

Pulling the bag off his shoulder, Axel gestures for me to take it. I grip the strap with some uncertainty.

"Better use both hands, shrimpy." He warns, before letting go.

Next thing I know, I'm on the ground.

"Told you so." He laughs, lifting the heavy bag off of me and extending a hand.

Gratefully, I accept the gesture and allow him to pull me up.

"What's in that thing, anyway?" I ask casually, trying to ignore the tingling in my fingers.

Axel plops it on the floor and draws back the zipper.

Sponges, acrylic paints, pastels, water color palettes, brush cases, color pencils, graphite and charcoal pencils, and countless upon countless-

"Lighters?"

Axel looks at me, brow furrowed. "Yeah, and?"

"No cigarettes?"

"Why, you want some?"

"No!"

He scratches his head. "Then what are you babbling about?"

"You have lighters."

"And?"

"You smoke."

"I think you're smoking something."

I frown, ignoring the remark. "Why do you have so many lighters?"

"Christ, I've gotta melt my pastels somehow!" He brushes off his pants and hoists his duffle bag onto his shoulder, "What do you suggest I do, sit on em'?"

I blink, not moving from the tile. "You melt them?"

"Duh. I paint with them."

"With pastels." I state blankly.

"You have a problem with creativity?"

"Wait a minute…" I scratch my head, "you paint?"

"The hell kind of question is that? Of course I do."

"Why not just use acrylic or watercolor?"

"Mastered those. Sick of em'."

Mastered?!

"But, I don't even know how to…" I reach up and drag my bag off the counter, pulling out my diary and flipping to the planner section.

Number two on the Monday list…

"What's that supposed to be?" He peers over my shoulder.

I quickly close it, but the growing smile on his face means I'm too late.

"Wow, miss art junkie doesn't know acrylic?"

Blanching, I stand and shove the planner into my bag.

"Time for me to go study, now." I say briskly, my pride bruised.

I thought I knew so much about everything. About people, about my art…about life. How could I live in such a huge bubble for so long? Why did I think I was better than him, or anybody else, for that matter?

"Hey, heads up."

A blob of yellow sails towards me, and I manage to catch it. Feeling the squishy texture, I open my hand to see a sponge.

"I'm letting you borrow it, but I expect you to paint with a purpose this time."

I don't even bother to ask what he means by 'painting with a purpose'.

"Thank you." Tucking the sponge in the bag, I give him a small smile. "I'll bring it back tomorrow."

* * *

"Did you have to search the ocean for that sponge?" Xions laughs.

"Sort of."

"So what happened?"

"I ran into Axel."

Xion raises her eyebrows. "The Asshole? Really?"

"Yes. Axel."

My biting emphasis comes across clearly. She gives me a weird look.

* * *

Ring-a-ling-ling ring-a-ling!

Setting down my blueberry bagel, I flip open my phone.

Roxas.

He's probably calling to ask about my art project.

Pulling out my planner, I swallow my food and let it ring, tugging out the pen from behind my ear.

Sunday, March 23, 2011.

Memo: Call Roxas back.

**To Do List** (In order of importance.)

1. Return sponges to Axel at noon.

I tap the pen against my teeth.

2. Paint with a purpose

3. -

"Hey Namine, you coming or what?"

Selphie leans over my breakfast table, smiling.

"Coming to...?"

She twists a lock of chestnut hair around her finger. "To English, of course! We have that definitions test today, remember?"

"What?" I eep out.

How could I forget to study for that?

Did I write that down?

Flipping through my planner, I check the whole week's worth of scheduling.

I suppose it just made its way off my To Do list.

* * *

"Hey, can I tell you about it on Monday?" I lean against the flag pole, my eyes closed in utter exhaustion.

"Is the art project going that badly?" Roxas asks sympathetically.

I shift the phone up the side of my face more. "I don't know."

"How about the rest of your classes?"

"I don't know."

"How was the English test?"

"I don't know."

He laughs. "I think I passed."

"Oh."

His cheerful voice goes away. "I've never heard you so depressed."

"I'm not."

"If there's anything you need to talk about-"

"There isn't."

Why does everyone keep asking me that?

" Oh, well, okay. I didn't mean to butt in, or anything."

I hate myself for acting like this.

"I'm sorry, Roxas…really. I think I'm going through some kind of artists' block."

"I think you're working too hard." He says softly.

My eyes grow hot and filmy.

Am I?

Blinking moisture back, I let out a sigh. "I'll be better by Monday, okay?"

"Why is Monday so special?"

"Because," I clear my throat, feeling a little better, "I can finally put all this confusion to rest."

* * *

Almost anxiously, I head down to the art room, the hallway echoing with each step.

I grip the sponge tightly in my hand, freshly washed of all paints and air-dried. I still don't know why I accepted borrowing it from him. I could have easily asked Yuffie for some. She's in the same art class.

Timidly, I crack the door open.

Empty tables. No red spikes.

Blinking, I open the door all the way and walk in, expecting him to come up behind me.

But he doesn't.

I feel strangely disappointed.

Closing the door behind me, I head back to my dorm, wondering if he forgot. If I was the same person that I was a week ago, I would have advised him to get a planner…but planning things doesn't seem to be my forte anymore.

Tucking the sponge into the pocket of my white jacket, I pass by the kitchen on the way to my room, eyeing some of the students as they heat up instant noodles and leftover pizza. My stomach growls in protest, but I force myself to look away.

No time to eat. I have makeup work to do for my other classes, anyway.

I fumble around for my room key.

"Hey."

Almost dropping my keys, I look up to see Axel leaning casually against the door of my room. Like it's his room, or something.

"H-how did you-?"

"Find your room?" He interjects, obviously thrilled at catching me off guard, "I saw it in your planner."

I wrote that down, too?

Axel regards me coolly, one eyebrow raised. "Is that a doughnut in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

Remembering the sponge, I produce it from my pocket. Almost contemplative, he makes no move to take it from me.

"Thank you." I tack on sheepishly.

Coming back to earth, he finally nods and takes the sponge."You do realize that you owe me now, right?"

"W-wha?"

"You know," He looks me up and down, "An eye for an eye."

"Like...a favor?"

Axel smiles coyly. "An artistic favor."

"Uh…sure."

"Good," His grin widens, "Then we'll need to go outside for better light."

* * *

Axel directs me with his paint brush over to a nearby tree. "Have a lean, it'll be a while."

The rough bark rakes along the back of my cotton hoodie as I slide down. Folding my legs under me, I watch him mix and match from mini containers of paint like there's nobody else in the world, with his legs crossed and a hunched, angular back. Letting my eyes wander in my boredom, I start to notice that we've walked pretty much to the edge of the sports field. Just far enough for the sprinkles of trees to thicken into a forest.

"Sorry I dragged you all the way out here," Axel mumbles in concentration " but it's easier to do this without worrying about nosy people."

I pull my knees up to my chest, confused. "It's no problem, but what exactly am I supposed to do?"

His mouth turns up slightly at the corners. "Just lend me your body."

Red creeps into my face. "W-what? No, no way."

"Hey there, no chickening out."

"B-but, I'm not that kind of girl!"

"Namine, who lit your tampon fuse on fire?" His brows etch together, "Just take the jacket off, will ya?"

Growing agitated, I stand up. "Absolutely not!"

"What's with you? I do this all the time."

"I'm sure you do!"

Axel stands as well. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"I refuse to expose myself like some trashy girl!"

"Trashy? What are you," He takes a step forward, "a prude?"

I take a step back. "Are you saying that having dignity is being prudish?!"

"Depends on what your definition of dignity is."

Vehemently leaning down, I yank my bag over and begin rummaging.

"Seriously," He rubs his temples, "you took that thing with you?"

Without comment, I flip through the dictionary pages and turn it to him.

_Dignity [dig-nih-tee]_

_1. bearing, conduct, or speech indicative of self-respect or appreciation of the formality or gravity of an occasion or situation._

_2. nobility or elevation of character; worthiness: dignity of sentiments._

_"So basically you're saying," Axel rolls his eyes, "that you aren't worthy of this?"_

My temple throbs. "That's the opposite of what I'm saying!"

"I thought you liked painting."

"Not like this!"

"I'm painting you."

"You don't need an actual person for painting reference. Just use another model off the internet, or-or something!"

"…Are you shitting me right now?" He presses his finger against my stomach, "What do you have against me putting paint on you?"

Flinching, I draw back. "I don't get what you mean, 'on me'."

"It'll wash off, you big baby."

"What do you mean?!"

"I need to practice body art," He draws back irritably, "you know, on, like, an actual body?"

"So… you don't want me to pose nude, then?"

A peculiar expression crosses his face. "Not unless you want to."

So he wants to paint me. Literally.

"W-well, no, I just thought…"

"Wow," Axel snickers, "for someone so pure, you sure think dirty."

"Th-that's not it at all!" I stutter, "You asked me to take off my jacket, and the whole location of it and all, I just thought, you know…"

"Careful. Thoughts flourish into ideas."

I press my hands against my cheeks to hide the pink.

"I suppose it's not entirely your fault, though." He plops back down on the grass, "It's not like I told you specifically what I needed help with. My model is sick right now, and I need someone to practice on. If you don't want to do this, I won't make you. "

I gulp, mirroring his movement, "It's okay…I overreacted."

"Are you wearing a sleeveless shirt underneath?" Grabbing a paint-stained cloth, he cleans off his mixing brush.

I shake my head

He unscrews a lid. "That's alright, I can make this work."

Make what work?

"Are you going to freak if I ask you to take the hoodie off?"

Without a peep, I peel it off of me, one sleeve at a time. Feeling strangely like some kind of amateur stripper, I look up to see if he's watching me...but he isn't. Sighing, I rest my jacket on the grass.

Stupid. I don't know why I thought he would.

After unrolling a set of brushes, Axel scoots directly up to me.

"This might be cold."

Slowly, he brings the brush up from the pot to hover over my bare forearm.

Before I can brace myself, he drags it lightly along my flesh. A lump forms in my throat as I watch the pigmented, liquid ice trail all the way up to my shoulder, then back down to my wrist in one black stroke.

Then again, and again, in a back-forth motion.

"Hand me a sponge?"

Coming out of my trance, I spy the sponge resting near his foot and hand it over. He presses the circular padding against my arm, blending out the black on my skin.

I begin to realize how close to each other we are.

Close enough for my knees to touch against his, again.

"Um," I try to keep my arm steady for him, but it trembles under the constant movement of the sponge, "What do you and your model do with this whole body painting thing?"

Axel encircles my wrist with his large hand, gently pulling my arm taught. In contrast to the cold paint, the warmth of his fingers is almost startling. "I specialize in body painting in my spare time, and my model and I go to festivals and conventions."

"Oh," I manage to keep my voice even as he paints another streak along my arm, "what goes on in those places?"

"It's basically an exhibit of many artists' talents. Some for show, some for competing."

"Competing?"

"Yeah, I enter my model in body painting competitions, like many other artists. It can rake in good money...if you win, that is."

I shudder when the paint drips down, tickling. "Is that your job?"

"Nah, I have another job on the side. This is just a hobby that pays extra. How about you," He shifts my arm gently, "do you work?"

Feeling dizzy, I answer almost mechanically. " No. I'm focusing on school."

"Must be nice." His breath suddenly hits my arm in a sigh, "It's hard to make straight lines when you're swaying, by the way."

"Oh, sorry."

It takes all the concentration I have to control my racing heart, praying he won't feel the throbbing of my pulse beneath those warm fingertips of his. Thankfully, he switches to my other arm, this time using his knee to steady my elbow.

"See," He runs more black along my other arm, "It's not too bad, right?"

If only he knew what this was doing to me.

"Not at all." I remark coolly.

Smirking at my nonchalance, he sets the brush down. "Then you won't mind pulling your straps off and tucking them under your arms?"

"Why?"

"I need to paint your collar bone to connect the paint from your arms."

My mouth smiles, but my insides are crying as I slip my arms out of my tank top and let the straps fall to the sides beneath my arm pits, thankful for the built-in bra. Otherwise I probably would've had to take those straps off, too.

Axel brings himself closer than before now, pressing the thick brush to my collarbone before making feathery strokes towards my neck. My eyes grow heavy from the relaxing movements, but I keep them open.

It's dangerous to enjoy this.

"H-how much of me do you intend to paint?" I work up the courage to ask, ignoring the tickle of the paint as he brushes it along my throat.

He runs the brush along my jaw. "Anything exposed."

We sit in silence for some time; him painting me, me being painted. Even after he switches to a smaller brush and traces delicately along the curves of my lips and cheek bones, I somehow stay under control.

But it still feels really, really nice.

Somewhere far off, I hear Axel murmur, "Doing okay?"

With a slightly leaden head, I manage a nod. He paints another section across my nose bridge, then drags it lightly up my forehead, giving me chills. Suddenly, he removes the brush from my skin and fixes his eyes on mine.

"Liar. You're acting like a Chihuahua stuck in a fridge."

With the good feeling gone, I suddenly find myself being defensive. "How am I lying?!"

"Well, for one thing," He fishes for a brush and quickly runs the soft bristles down the side of my face, making goose bumps surface, "You keep doing that."

Coming back to my senses, I frown, moving his arm away. "Doing what?"

"You shake."

That's because it feels good. And it shouldn't.

"That's because the paint is cold!"

Saved.

"Oh, really now."

"Really."

Rolling his eyes, he rolls up his sleeve and dips a thick, rounded brush into some red, holding it out lengthwise to me.

Feeling uncertain, I take the brush from him. "What's this for?"

"Paint me."

"Why?"

"What," He thrusts his arm under my face, "am I not as worthy as paper, or some foo-foo wannabe artist shit like that?"

Wannabe?

"It's not that, but why-"

"Then paint me."

No point in arguing.

After I awkwardly position myself over his arm, I press the brush against his pale skin, surprised to find his arm so devoid of blemishes or hair. The red paint comes forth from the brush, leaving a thin line across his palm.

Gulping, I run a long, thick stroke upward. "Like this?"

When I reach his elbow, I withdraw the brush and sit back on my heels.

He looks down at me complacently. "The paint is completely warm."

"We might have different skin temperature."

"I'm calling bull shit."

"It's not. It's a proven fact." I bull shit again.

"Actually…" He runs his finger along my temple, face scarily close to mine. "You might be right. You are pretty red."

From blushing.

"My skin is sensitive in the sun..."

"Did you get this cut from the sun, too?" His fingertips discover my lower lip.

I bite my lips way too much.

Flushing, I move my face away. "Yes. My lips crack from the sun burn."

"Wow, you've got some serious baby skin."

"I call it sensitive skin."

"I won't burn you anymore then, your highness. I'm finished."

"Really?" I try to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

"I only needed you for an hour or so." He digs through his duffle bag and hands me a tiny plastic mirror.

It's already been an hour?

"This is too small to look through." I take the quarter-sized mirror and squint, trying to examine the details of the art work.

Axel plops down behind me. "Just focus on one part, and I bet you can see it all."

Bringing it closer to my face, I decide to rest the mirrors' reflection at my neck, where a myriad of what looks to be stars dots along my pulse.

"Did you find your spot?"

"Uh huh."

"Alright," He shifts behind me, chin hovering over my shoulder, " Now, based on that, tell me what the rest of the design looks like."

I think for a moment, then get the full picture. "The night sky?"

I feel his airy laugh on my collar bone. "And what makes you think they're stars?"

"Well, it's a black background, with white flecks."

"They could be polka dots, you don't know." He reaches over my shoulder, re-adjusting the mirror so that it hits my collar bone.

"Now what do you see?"

Half of a buttery colored circle filled with craters, the rest cut off by the curved edge of the mirror.

"The moon?"

"It could be cheese."

"Cheese with stars isn't logical." I frown.

"You mean with polka dots."

"That wouldn't make sense, either."

"Okay, then. Since you're just so smart…" He removes the mirror, "what about the rest of the body design?"

"What about it?" I look halfway over my shoulder at him, expecting this to be some kind of joke.

No smirk, no eyebrow raising, nothing.

"I gave you two glimpses. Now tell me what the rest of the design on your body is."

I start to bring my arms in front of me for clues, but Axel gingerly encircles my wrists and pulls them behind my back.

"And no cheating." He taunts.

He's actually serious.

I shudder, enjoying the warmth of his hands way too much.

"I-it's the night sky, I said."

"Prove it."

"Well, I saw a moon and…"

"You saw half."

"And the stars-"

"A small portion. Now what's on the back of your neck?"

I roll my eyes. "How am I supposed to know that, I can't see-"

"You took a guess at the other two pieces."

"I got a glimpse. It's probably another planet, or a shooting star-"

"Wrong."

Growing irritated by his constant interrupting, I unhook my arms from his and push the mirror away.

"Well, how the heck am I supposed to know what the whole thing looks like?! You can't expect me to figure it out by only showing me two pieces!"

"Why not? You do it all the time."

"And when, pray tell, do I do that?" I scoot forward and turn around.

"You view things through what you see." He pulls over a water bottle and a small towel, "And that reflects on your art."

"Duh, I can only go by what I see." I argue.

"Wrong." Tipping the bottle against the cloth, he suddenly grabs my arm and begins rubbing the paint off, " You see everything through a tunnel, and you just assume you know everything else that resides on the other side.

"For example: With body art, with your art project…" I try to pull my arm away, but he holds fast, "…and with me."

He makes some sense.

"That's not true."

He brings the wet towel up to my shoulder, grip still firm. "Tell me I'm wrong then."

How could I have been so blind?

"You have no idea what you're talking about." I feel myself trembling.

"You were making that painting simply for a grade." He brings the towel under my chin and tilts my face towards him, "No feeling, no passion. As long as it was a replica, you were satisfied."

"I was just covering all the mediums that were required for the course," I make a grab for the towel, "and I can take the paint off myself!"

Axel snickers and releases his hold on me. "If there's no feeling involved, you've lost all your mediums."

"But I worked so hard." My eyes blur. "I recreated every detail…"

"Namine," The warmth of his hand returns as he suddenly presses it against the left side of my chest. "just because you can replicate something well, doesn't mean you've captured the original warmth and personality of the painter who created it."

"How do I do that, then?" My eyes start to flow, my stress bleeding out.

I don't bother to push him away again.

He taps my upper chest, around where my heart is, "You paint with this," before tracing his finger delicately along my closed eyelid, "not with these."

Leaning away, I wipe at my eyes, smudging my clean arm with black paint again. "So when you say I paint the same way I look at people, you meant that…"

"I meant you only saw what was on the surface," He withdraws his hand, "you put too much focus on that."

"I guess I'm not an artist, then."

"When you lose the purpose of what you're creating, you lose the artistry in the art."

"So," I rub at my arm, "you're basically saying I'm painting with the wrong mind-set?"

"Basically."

The paint shows no signs of coming off, so I scrub harder. "Then why didn't you just tell me that from the beginning?"

"Would you have listened?"

Probably not.

"Yes." I throw the cloth to the ground in frustration. "And it certainly would have saved me a week of stress!"

"Should you thank me now or later?" He drops the towel over my head and smiles.

I throw it back at him and laugh. "Only if you tell me what you put on the back of my neck."

Axel catches the towel.

"A dictionary."

* * *

A/N: I know. I know, everyone. It took me forever and a year to finish. I'm sorry, I'm a piece of shit. :D I hope you enjoyed, please review. I'm thinking of writing an epilogue of this, lemme know if you think I should leave it as is or tack on the epilogue. :3


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